Page 40 of The Count’s Charade

The fellow was waiting for her capitulation. It was a cue for Grace to fling open the door, demanding to know how he dared force his way into an English lady’s household. But Jemima was upstairs, and she dare not open the door until the girl came down. In an agony of apprehension, she kept quite still and silent, watching the stairs.

“Mademoiselle?”

“I am still here!” she shouted, terrified they would start battering on the door.

“Stand aside, if you please,” came from the other side.

Grace was moved to look round at the unyielding wood. She hardly knew she spoke. “What did you say?”

“Stand aside! I am going to shoot the lock!”

Her heart jerked. If she refused to move, would he dare to shoot anyway? Surely not. He could not wish to bring trouble on himself. Injuring an innocent citizen, and a lady to boot, must inevitably cause him a good deal of trouble. But she was loath to put it to the test.

She cast a frantic glance upwards. Come on, Jemima!

“You are there, mademoiselle?”

The maid appeared at the top of the stairs, a huge bundle of linen clutched to her chest. Grace beckoned madly, and Jemima crept downstairs, peering over the top of her burden to see her way.

“Don’t shoot!” yelled Grace. “I will open the door!”

The maid reached the bottom and scuttled down the hall and through the door to the lean-to, shutting it behind her. Grace let her breath go, and turned the key in the lock.

Loriot was on the doorstep, a large pistol held loosely in his hand. Heavens above, he had meant it! Grace thrust down on the coursing fear and glared at him.

“Is this how you treat a lady, sir? How dare you threaten me?”

The Frenchman slipped the pistol into his pocket, his attitude laconic. “I do not threaten you, mademoiselle. I desire not to hurt you, but I will certainly search this house.”

Grace’s look of feigned fury passed beyond him to the two men standing in the path. They were singularly expressionless, and the more chilling for it. There was neither triumph nor expectation here. A job was to do, and they were doing it. That was all. Again, Grace felt the shiver of helpless apprehension that must be the lot of ordinary men and women across the Channel. For the first time, she began to appreciate just what had induced Henri to hold his secrets so close to his chest.

She returned her gaze to the leader. “By what authority do you presume to search my house, sir?”

He did not turn, but a snap of his fingers threw one of the men behind him into action. It was he who had been left on guard here the first time. Augustin, Henri had said. He slipped a hand into an inner pocket of his coat. The paper he extracted was handed into Loriot’s waiting fingers. He did not glance at it, but held it out to Grace.

She took it and opened it up. It was written in English, announcing the bearer to be an accredited agent of the Republic of France, to whom it was trusted diplomatic courtesy would be extended. He was here on a matter of public safety.

Grace handed it back, eyeing Loriot with no diminution of her fierce stare. “I see no reason in the world why I should allow you to enter my house. However, if it will convince you I spoke nothing but the truth when I told you your countryman left here more than a week since —”

“Mademoiselle,” interrupted Loriot, “it is not that we do not believe. It is that we have only this house where the man was once found. Here we must begin therefore.”

“Well, I don’t know what you expect to find,” she said, adopting an imitation of Mab’s grumbling tone. “It is excessively inconvenient, moreover.”

No reply was forthcoming. Trusting Jemima and Henri would be fairly embarked upon her scheme, Grace at last allowed them entry, stationing herself in the gap to the side of the stairs to prevent their crossing directly towards the lean-to. Looking a trifle surprised, Loriot stepped in, the two other men crowding behind him. Had he thought she would not capitulate? She had best continue to feign annoyance.

Grace gestured to the left. “The parlour. Pray don’t neglect to hunt for your fugitive under the table.”

She received a steady look from the leader, who did not trouble to reply. All three trod into the parlour, and Grace immediately stomped to the door, remaining in the aperture. They were looking about with interest, standing in a close formation that made the room look small. Her eye caught the two cups left upon the table, and her pulse fluttered. She made haste to draw their attention away from it, pointing to the bureau. “That is where I work.”

The third man — Etienne, was it? — stepped towards the bureau. Loriot glanced at her. “You permit?”

Grace shrugged and lifted her chin. “Apparently you do not need my permission, sir. No doubt you will wish to inspect it for clues.”

Her sarcasm was wasted. She watched as Etienne opened the bureau, pushing aside her work and hunting through the little drawers and row of shelves above. There was no fear of his finding the secret cache, for it was impossible to know it was there or to open it without an intimate knowledge of the catch, which was not operable by accident. A tattoo pattered in her breast, nevertheless.

Etienne looked through the lower drawers and then turned to Loriot with a grimace. In turn, the leader looked at Grace. “What do you do there?”

“Not that it is any of your affair, but I write on behalf of the illiterate in the villages. Letters, and an occasional treatise. I also copy accounts for Mr Mayberry. Anything that may produce a little income, in fact.”